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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24861766">Consequences of the Inconsequential</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/homegrownhubris/pseuds/homegrownhubris'>homegrownhubris</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Timelines, Angst, Depression, Earth C (Homestuck), Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Rated M for Heavy Themes, Roommates, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Character Death, The Homestuck Epilogues, The Homestuck Epilogues: Candy, Therapy, Villain Character Death, fuck the epilogues. all my homies hate the epilogues</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:34:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,971</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24861766</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/homegrownhubris/pseuds/homegrownhubris</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon finding himself a decaying timeline, Dirk Strider is ready to put an end to his narrative. But when his brother’s best friend sets his plan awry, he realizes that this story is far from over.</p><p>John Egbert can’t help but wonder if the others on Earth C feel as disconnected as he does. But when a chance encounter ends in him saving Dirk’s life, he realizes that he might not be as alone as he thought.</p><p>Two lives now intertwined, two stories pushed in new directions. </p><p>This isn’t how the Candy timeline was supposed to go.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Egbert/Dirk Strider</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>116</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Purrsonal Picks</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>As per the Candy Epilogue, the first few chapters of this work deal heavily with the topic of suicide. Please heed the tags.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A feeling of existential malaise washes over Dirk Strider as quickly and shockingly as cold ocean water crashing overhead.</p><p>He is braced against the wall, trembling under the pressure of a force setting every nerve in his body alight. His breath is quick and shallow, his hands slick with sweat as he presses Jane’s contact on his phone. </p><p>“Hey, Jane. Bad news,” Dirk tells her, trying to keep his voice even, and failing miserably. “Cancel everything.”</p><p>When she presses him on the matter, he hangs up on her. Every minute he spends talking, he can feel all purpose slipping further from his grasp. </p><p>How did he get here?</p><p>Could it be the fact that he hasn’t slept in days? Kept busy by a constant stream of projects and wide awake from too many energy drinks, trying to stave off the stagnant feeling of a mind at rest? Or maybe he’s experiencing a paranoid delusion, caused by a break with reality after the concerning number of weeks he’s gone without talking to anyone face-to-face. </p><p>At least, Dirk thinks, these are the kind of speculations that’ll be made once he’s dead.</p><p>No. The answer is something much more grave, much more existential, and much more abstract, so that Dirk himself might never truly understand it. But through his haze of delirium, one thing rings true in this mind: that this life is not one that he will keep living. </p><p>The minute he is off the line with Jane, Dirk is at work planning his own death. He already knows how he’ll do it. He runs back to his workbench and clears a space, sending all his robotics projects tumbling onto the floor with a crash. No need for those anymore. </p><p>With a determined fervor, he grabs a piece of paper on his desk and starts making calculations: the velocity of his body in freefall, the pull of gravity, the amount of force needed for the rope to cut clean through his neck. There is just one missing variable.</p><p>“Hal.” Inside his glasses, the chat window for his autoresponder lights up. </p><p><span class="dirk">TT: Give me an estimate of the height of the carapacian bell tower.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: Big plans today, huh?</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: Like you wouldn’t believe.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: That seems statistically improbable.</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: Listen, can we please just skip the obtuse banter today? I’m kind of in a rush. How tall is the tower?</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: Yikes, all right. About 174 feet.</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: Great.</span></p><p>Dirk punches a few numbers into a calculator on his desk, and scribbles something onto his paper. </p><p><span class="dave">TT: By the way, Jane keeps trying to call you. Should I give her a message?</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: No. I blocked her number for a reason.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: Well, that certainly doesn’t lend itself to further prying questions.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: Also, it seems you’re unusually anxious right now. Is something up?</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: Now what would give you a ridiculous idea like that?</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: Your heart rate is nearly 200 beats per minute, and you can’t even write without your hand shaking. So, I’d guess you’re either experiencing early-onset arthritis, or serious nerves.</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: Another amazing deduction by Lil Einstein himself! I just don’t know how you do it.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: Fuck you.</span></p><p>Taking a pair of hedge shears, he crosses to the other side of his studio and unwraps a lengthy section of rope from a coil hanging on the wall. He takes another look at his diagram and calculations, measures out a long piece of rope, and cuts and captchalogues it.</p><p><span class="dave">TT: Wait...</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: Dirk.</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: Yes?</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: That isn’t for what I think it is, is it?</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: If what you think is that I’m going to kill myself, then, yes, it is.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: …</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: My calculations show an unnervingly high chance that this isn’t irony.</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: Also correct.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: Hold on. You’re actually going to do it?</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: Don’t worry. I’ll leave you powered on.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: As a supercomputer, I know I can’t feel whatever emotion you’re experiencing, but I can say with complete certainty that this is a ludicrously bad and extremely impulsive idea.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: Could you at least tell me why you feel so strongly about this?</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: See, that’s just the thing. You can’t tell what’s wrong.</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: But something is. I don’t know how or why, but it’s obvious that somehow, our lives have just completely lost significance. Purpose has dissipated entirely. I can’t keep going like this. If you were human, you’d feel it too.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: I don’t understand.</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: Of course you don’t understand! You don’t have feelings, you can’t tell how everything is slipping away.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: Then tell me. What does it feel like?</span></p><p>What <em>does</em> it feel like?</p><p>It feels like someone flipped a switch, turning everything tangibly artificial. It’s like the afterimage of a TV screen turned off in a dark room: still bright when you close your eyes, but quickly fading into memory. The destruction of essence itself.</p><p><span class="dirk">TT: That doesn’t matter. Quit trying to stall.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: Might I suggest an alternative solution?</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: There IS no alternative solution! Any time spent here is time spent with absolutely no meaning, no impact, no consequence!</span></p><p>He’s trembling now, his voice nearing a shout.</p><p><span class="dirk">TT: If there’s no consequence, then what is the <em>point!?</em></span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: Dirk, stop this.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: You’re scaring me.</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: Oh, that won’t work a second time, pal.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: Fine! I’ll cut the bullshit. You’re being fucking stupid.</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: Asimov’s first law of robotics: “A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.”</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: I programmed you to react this way, remember? Now, shut up and let me do this.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: Hold on. Can you please just wait one more minute?</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: No, I <em>can’t!</em> How are you not getting this!?</span></p><p>His voice wavers with strained anger.</p><p>
  <span class="dirk">TT: If I cannot be in control of my own life, then there isn’t a single fucking reason worth staying alive! There is <em>nothing</em> left for me here. Everyone else can stay and keep doing whatever makes them feel fulfilled, but if nothing I do is ever going to be significant, then I don’t want any part of it.</span>
</p><p>He takes a shaky breath.</p><p><span class="dave">TT: Dirk-</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: This is my final choice that matters.</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: You can’t stop me, so don’t try.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: No, I can’t. You’re right. But I can get someone else to.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: I’m writing a message to Jane right now. If I can’t intervene, then she will.</span><br/>
<span class="dirk">TT: Sorry, Hal, but I can’t let you do that.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">TT: No-- no, Dirk, wait--!</span></p><p>“HAL, OFF.”</p><p>At his voice command, the glow of the screen inside his glasses cuts sharply to black. Of course, the shutoff will only be temporary- in 24 hours, Hal will automatically reboot. Dying universe or not, it’s still Dirk’s moral imperative to let him stay active and autonomous. Besides, if Hal can still message the others, maybe having some version of Dirk around can ease their pain. Let him become his replacement, even. It’s what Hal’s unsubtly wanted for years, anyway. </p><p>After double-checking his work, Dirk decaptchalogues the length of rope, and loops it over his shoulder. For a moment, he stands in the doorway, looking over his workshop for the last time, lit up in red against the dying daylight. Though every part of his being is rushing him out the door, there is still one last touch to add. He runs back over to his desk and pulls a small piece of paper from one of the drawers. The note isn’t much - it’s brief, filled with a disorganized mess of thoughts - but there are no words Dirk can use that will make a grieving loved one understand the magnitude of this crisis. Still, he owes them the courtesy of a goodbye. </p><p>The folded note fits perfectly in the palm of one of his prototype robots. One that was once going to be so important, Dirk recalls with a pang of regret, but is so meaningless now. His trembling fingers close around the robot’s cold, still, metal ones, curling its hand gently into a fist to keep the note in place. Dirk takes one last look at the place and flies away into the dusk, leaving the door closed, but unlocked. The weight of the rope is heavy on his shoulder. </p><p>-</p><p>Under a steady crumbling of all directive, the flight to the bell tower stretches out infinitely, and yet simultaneously seems to pass in the blink of an eye. An eye that, at this moment, is dead focused on one all-consuming goal. Dirk is going to end his life- never has a motive brought less of a question with it. Just as paradox space created him from himself, the only fitting end would be to die by his own hand as well. </p><p>He lands. The tower looms over him, forebodingly tall against the dim shade of the predawn sky. But for Dirk, it is just tall enough. His entire body is alight with an anticipatory, manic energy as he enters the tower and rushes up the stairs. He bounds up at a rapid pace, going step by step, then every other step, then giving up and flying the rest of the way because this <em>cannot wait.</em> There is no time, there is no meaning, there is no <em>anything</em> anymore, but to be reclaimed by this dwindling void of purpose; the first casualty of a flickering, fading essence. </p><p>At the top, his feet find flat ground, and he steps to the tower’s ledge. He looks down at the square. Below, a few carapacians mill about lazily, walking to nowhere of importance, not knowing the horrific scene they’ll witness in just a few minutes. Rolling checkered hills stretch beyond the town’s borders for miles into the distance, dotted with glinting gold and purple homes. The castle where Roxy and Calliope live sits majestically on the horizon, its arches and banners silhouetted against the dim sunrise. It really is a beautiful day to die- almost sickeningly so, as if fate were taunting Dirk. <em>“Look at this. Such beautifully ignorant bliss that you could never be a part of. It’s sad, really, how you’ve always been so stuck in your mind that you’ve never given yourself a chance to be happy. But that’s just something that was never in the cards for you. Such is the cruelty of fate.”</em></p><p>Dirk shrugs the rope off his shoulder and quickly fashions it into the shape of a noose, then loops it over the beam and secures it with a knot in an unnervingly practiced motion. He pretends not to notice how badly his hands are shaking as he pulls the noose over his head. A quick tug at the base of the loop pulls the knot tight, the coarse rope digging into the skin of his neck, where a scar is still faintly visible from his last decapitation nearly ten years ago.</p><p>A few passerby casually observe him from a distance, not close enough to be able to put together what’s going to happen. Dirk doesn’t notice them. He is looking down instead, past his feet, barely hanging off the ledge. The distance to the ground isn’t as far as that of his high-rise apartment in the sea, but the finality and gravity of what he’s about to do makes him feel dizzy with a sudden fear of heights. <em>So,</em> he remarks to himself. <em>Guess you still have some sense of self-preservation left after all.</em></p><p>For a moment, he thinks of his friends. Dave, Jane, Roxy, Jake. The assumptions they’ll make, and the conclusions they’ll come to, all of them wrong. If only he could make them understand that this is for the better. They’ll grieve for a while, but, he tells himself, it will only be temporary. They will move on, and keep living their lives. Hopefully even get some satisfaction out of them.</p><p>He swallows back any remaining doubt. This is it.</p><p>This is what he wants. </p><p>This is his choice. </p><p>Dirk closes his eyes and jumps.</p><p>-</p><p>These days, there aren’t too many reasons one might find John Egbert outside of his house. Every time he’s sighted out doing anything as mundane as getting the mail, the flood of ensuing tabloid headlines might more well befit a sinkhole swallowing New Prospit whole. What’s even more unusual is the early hour of the morning, the sun freshly orange above the horizon behind him now as he paces through a quaint town in the Carapace Kingdom. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, his brow furrowed in contemplation as he walks briskly down the street. Unlike the rest of the Carapacian citizens here, John is not heading anywhere in particular. </p><p>It’s ridiculous, quite frankly, that John should be out and about so early. He is by no means a morning person. But sleepless, troubled thoughts don’t just think themselves, and today, he’s got an overabundance of them. Instead of laying awake through insomnia-ridden nights, John has found that taking walks helps clear his head when a lot is on his mind - unfortunately for him, he can’t seem to make sense of anything right now.</p><p>His date with Roxy last night was… good. Really! There wasn’t anything bad about it. Roxy, of course, is as nice of a girl as John could hope to meet: funny, kind, beautiful. But, gosh, something about her seemed almost imperceptibly off. John couldn’t put his finger on it. Was it in the way she talked? The way she looked? The fact that she didn’t seem to think anything about their lives might be just a bit wrong? </p><p>Then again, Roxy was always pretty upbeat. Maybe he was just overthinking. Of course she could’ve changed, in the eight-odd years while John was busy secluding himself in his house. But if he’s being perfectly honest, it’s not only her that’s seemed different. Is it just him, or has <em>everyone</em> seemed a little strange since he decided to stay? In fact, just last night, Dave came to him in a panic over dating Karkat and/or Jade. John’s really in no place to judge whatever thing they have going on, but didn’t it seem  like it all escalated awfully quickly? Something about it just doesn’t sit right. And Rose, he heard, ended up in the hospital yesterday, seemingly out of nowhere… none of this seems like a normal sequence of events. It’s like their lives have been pushed into a different orbit, somehow, or none at all. </p><p>Or maybe it’s nothing.</p><p>John stops, sighs, and runs his hand through his hair. His head hurts. The worst part, he thinks, is that no one else seems to think anything’s different. It’s making him feel crazy, thinking about it. Sane people don’t stay up all night, wondering about weird, vague hypotheticals. </p><p>He keeps walking down the street, following it around a corner into Bishop Square. Maybe it’s him that’s different. Maybe this is what he gets for shutting himself away from everyone else. A world that keeps changing, and one blue boy that doesn’t.</p><p>Exhibit A: the people around him in the square. <em>They</em> don’t seem affected, as they mill lazily about their daily lives: going for a jog, laughing over gossip, getting breakfast from the local café. It’s the perfect kind of normal scene that <em>should</em> make a demigod feel warm with pride, but instead, it just adds to John’s frustrated confusion. These darn… happy carapacians and their beautiful buildings. So quaint, all the little coffee shops and bookstores decked out in gold and deep purple. So <em>picturesque,</em> the way the warm amber sun hangs low in the sky behind the belltower, casting it in a proud silhouette against the morning sky.</p><p>John squints at the tower. It looks like there’s someone up there, a carapacian maintenance worker or something. Yet another person going about their day as usual. What would they even <em>do?</em> Polish the bell every day? He keeps walking across the square while watching them. When the sun isn’t glaring from behind, though, it reveals a figure that isn’t carapacian at all, but human: a shock of bleached blond hair, a slender, agile build, a glint of light reflected off of dark sunglasses. Huh. That’s strange. It almost looks like…</p><p>John’s stomach drops when he sees the rope. The figure jumps off the edge.</p><p>
  <em>“-DIRK!”</em>
</p><p>The rope is unfurling, ready to snap taut, as Dirk plummets down beside the bell tower. In an instant, he will be dead. </p><p>Before John can even process the scene unfolding, he’s already dematerializing into wisps of wind. In one fell swoop, he rematerializes in the air by the tower, grabs Dirk, and transports both of them to the ground, where they land with a <em>thud.</em></p><p>Dirk’s eyes fly open. He sits upright with a gasp, his fingers flying to his throat, grasping at a rope that isn’t there. John, too, picks himself up off the ground in panicked confusion.</p><p>“Dirk, are you--”</p><p>He shoots a piercing glare in John’s direction, his eyes ablaze with delirious agitation behind his glasses. </p><p>“What the hell did you <em>do!?”</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Again, suicide is discussed at length in this chapter. Please heed the tags.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>No. </p><p>This is all wrong.</p><p>Dirk is supposed to be dead.</p><p>His plan was perfect, his calculations were flawless, the margin of error so slim it might as well have been nonexistent. His body should be lying at the base of the tower right now, encircled by a halo of blood, a crowd of screaming bystanders swarming the scene like flies to spilled soda. And yet, against all odds, he is still breathing. His heart, still beating, continues faithfully pumping blood throughout his body, and his head is still very much connected to his torso. He is alive.</p><p>How could this all have gone so wrong?</p><p>The answer sits beside him in equally intense bewilderment. His name is John Egbert, and it’s because of him that Dirk is still here. Which is unfortunate for Dirk, because this is absolutely <em>not</em> how he’d planned for this to go.</p><p>Dirk whips around to face John. Though a stunned, sick feeling of wrongness is squeezing his chest so tight it’s hard to breathe, he manages six words to address his new obstacle:</p><p>“What the hell did you <em>do!?</em>”</p><p>John, still reeling, has no idea what to say. “Wh… you just nearly died! Are you okay?”</p><p>Dirk staggers to his feet. “No! Actually, I’m not! This was supposed to be my <em>choice,</em> the last thing that mattered, and then you came along and, and–”</p><p>“Wait–last thing that–what do you–”</p><p>“<em>I should be dead right now!</em>” Dirk snaps, ignoring John completely. “You have no idea how much is at stake! I had a plan, I was going to get out of this… this <em>useless</em> fucking place and–”</p><p>John steps forward, trying to suppress the panic in his voice. “Woah, hey, slow down. What are you talking about?”</p><p>Dirk throws his hands up. “Nothing fucking matters anymore! And I’m not just going to sit around on my ass just wasting my goddamn life if there’s no chance for it to ever amount to anything. Maybe you don’t get it, but this is the only thing I can do… the only way out…”</p><p>“Hey… no, it isn’t… can we please just talk for a bit? I just want to know what’s going on.”</p><p>Dirk laughs, darkly, unbalanced. “Fine! You want to know what’s wrong? It’s everything here!” He gestures broadly to everything around them. “It’s so insubstantial, so devoid of any meaning! I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out years ago. It’s a dead fucking end! All I’m doing is saving myself from a lifetime of slowly having my purpose whittled away to nothing. Maybe there is a universe out there where I belong, but this isn’t it. I’m done.”</p><p>John has never seen such intensity from Dirk before. It’s a terrifying thing to witness up close, and heartbreaking, in a way. How long had he teetered on the edge of the deep end, unbeknownst to everyone but himself? </p><p>Behind Dirk, John can see a crowd of concerned bystanders beginning to form on the street as the altercation escalates. John is beginning to get anxious that Dirk might do something reckless. He steps forward tentatively.</p><p>“Dirk, whatever’s happened, you don’t need to do this. You’re not thinking clearly right now.”</p><p>“No, no no that’s where you’re wrong. I’ve never been thinking so clearly in my life.” He definitely doesn’t look it. The more Dirk insists, the more worried John becomes. He needs to talk to him, figure out what’s going on, and in this state, that’s not going to happen.</p><p>Dirk continues, not entirely directed at John. “This is what’s always been meant to happen. You can’t drag out the inevitable forever.”</p><p>“Wait–can you at least just stop and talk to me first?”</p><p>“No–God, can’t you see?” Dirk’s voice brims with despair. “It’s <em>over,</em> John! You don’t have to go around pretending to be some kind of fucking hero. We’ve all got our own shit to handle now!”</p><p>“Yeah, well, this isn’t the way to handle it! Just because we aren’t out saving the world all the time doesn’t mean we can’t still help each other. Or be deserving of it, either!” he adds pointedly.</p><p>“Really? Take a look around!” As Dirk speaks, he grows more intense with every sentence. “When was the last time someone “helped” you? When was the last time you saw another one of us? For the love of god, we haven’t all gotten together in <em>years!</em> How the fuck are we supposed to be helping each other when half of us never leave the house?”</p><p>“We could still do it!” John protests, desperate. “We could fix things, get together again! It’s not too late!”</p><p>“Yes, it is. We aren’t kids anymore. At some point you’ve got to wake up and realize that our glory days are over. Things have changed! And maybe you’re okay with that, but I’m not sticking around for the rest of this planet’s natural existence in a place without meaning.” He makes a definitive push off the ground and hovers a few feet in the air, impatient to wrap this up. John meets him at his level.</p><p>“No… no, Dirk, stop it. It doesn’t have to be like this. You need help.”</p><p>Dirk recoils as if John had burned him. “Who are you to tell me what I do or don’t need?” he hisses. “You don’t even know me!”</p><p>“I know enough to know that you’re in a lot of pain right now. And I know that you think that this is the only way to make it stop, but it’s not! You can talk to someone; get help. And that’s fine! It’s okay to get help, it’s not something… <em>shameful,</em> it just makes you human. And I promise you, I <em>promise</em> you, things can get better, if you can just hold on a little while longer.”</p><p>There’s a moment where their gazes are fixed, John’s tense with desperate urgency, Dirk’s with confliction. Dirk lands and, for a moment, John thinks he’s convinced him. Then his expression darkens. When he speaks again, there’s an edge of fatal determination in his voice.</p><p>“No.” He shakes his head. “No, You don’t… you don’t understand. This isn’t something you can change.”</p><p>He takes a few steps back, and turns to leave.</p><p>“No–” John starts, growing desperate, “Wait, can you please just–”</p><p>Dirk takes another step back, then stops, staying turned with his back to John. </p><p>“Goodbye, John.”</p><p>“Wait, no, <em>DON’T–!</em>”</p><p>With a flash of his hand, Dirk summons his Unbreakable Katana into existence. He can feel its handle, slippery against the sweat of his palms, for one split second before bringing it up to his neck in a swift, dramatic motion. John immediately leaps into action, reappearing by his side just long enough to take him by the arm and transport the both of them somewhere else–the first place that comes to his mind.</p><p>Dirk’s katana clatters to the ground. In another swirling gust of wind, he and John land in a room with a soft carpeted floor. John barely has time to register the familiar layout of his living room before a punch to the side of his face sends him staggering backward, a few droplets of blood spraying through the air. He brings the sleeve of his hoodie up to his nose.</p><p>“Ow! What the hell was that–”</p><p>He looks up just in time to see Dirk making a run for the front door, and rushes after him in a gust of wind, beating him to it. </p><p>“Dirk, will you please just–”</p><p>“Why can’t you just leave me the fuck alone!?”</p><p>With a feverish, fervent passion, he draws back a shaky arm to throw another punch. But before he can, John grabs his wrists, stopping him.</p><p>“Because you need help! I want to help you!”</p><p>He struggles fruitlessly to break free of his grasp.</p><p>“I don’t <em>need</em> any help! Everything was going perfectly until you showed up!”</p><p>“No, it wasn’t! Dirk, I have no idea what could make you think this is the only answer, but it’s not.”</p><p>“You don’t understand–just let me do this–”</p><p>“You’re right. I don’t. But there’s got to be a better way to deal with it than this, and I’m not going to sit around and watch you die when there’s still a chance for things to change. If that means I have to keep chasing you down for an entire day, then that’s what I’ll do. So will you please just talk to me?”</p><p>John is steady, unyielding, his hands gentle yet firm around Dirk’s trembling wrists. He’s stronger than he looks, Dirk will give him that. Days of skipping on sleep and meals has him at a disadvantage too, and John seems to know it. This isn’t a fight he’s going to win.</p><p>Dirk looks at John’s resolute, worried face. </p><p>He is cornered. </p><p>Defeated, he relaxes his shoulders until his arms are out of John’s grip, and eyes him warily.</p><p>John sits down on the couch, and Dirk hesitantly follows suit. For a moment John watches him cautiously, afraid he’d try to fly out the door any second now. But he doesn’t.</p><p>“...Okay. I don’t know what’s going on, but I just want to help, all right?”</p><p>He avoids eye contact with John. </p><p>“What you mean is, you want to know why I just tried to kill myself.”</p><p>“Well… yeah. If that’s okay.”</p><p>Now that he’s sitting still, John can get a good look at Dirk for the first time. He looks awful. Dark circles hang heavily under his eyes, giving his face a sort of sunken, hollowed-out appearance. John is taken aback by how defenseless he looks, as if swallowed by the couch cushions. Dirk had always seemed so sure of himself, so steady, but now, it’s as if the world has him compressed under such great pressure that he’s beginning to buckle in on himself.</p><p>He sits still for a moment, then presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose under his glasses and sighs. “You’re not going to understand.”</p><p>“I don’t have to. Tell me anyway.”</p><p>Dirk is quiet for a moment. John thinks he might not say anything, but he does.</p><p>“It just started a day ago. Well,” he corrects himself, “it’s always felt like this, to some extent. Like there’s always been this lingering feeling in the back of my head that one day it’ll all amount to nothing.”</p><p>He shakes his head slightly. He’s looking into the distance, as if recanting some deep-buried story for the first time in a decade.</p><p>“And all my life I’ve worked, I’ve worked so hard to prove to myself that I was capable of fulfilling that purpose, make my life feel worth something. Only I wasn’t. Every time I, you know, saved a friend’s life, won a fight, did something that should feel good, it just felt like a reminder of the emptiness that’s always been there, that never seems to go away. And I’ve done everything I can to try and figure out what it was, but the thing is, it’s easy to notice when something’s wrong when it’s there. When the thing you’re looking for is actually a <em>lack</em> of a thing, it’s damn near impossible. Figuring out what it is you don’t have.”</p><p>He pauses, reflecting. John can see his eyes, downcast and weary, for a moment before he pushes his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose and continues. </p><p>“Anyway, it was just yesterday, when something changed. Like a switch flipped. And all of a sudden, it felt so pointless to even keep trying. My life, everything, it just doesn’t feel like it has any meaning anymore. And I know that sounds insane, but it feels so real, it’s like it’s all I can think about, it’s all I can feel; just a crushing sense of unquenchable purposelessness. It’s so obvious now, that all those years, I was never going to find whatever it was I tried so hard to look for. I’ve made all the attempts at deriving purpose from the world that I can, to make some sense of everything, but it’s pointless. Things have slipped even further now, and I don’t think there’s anything left for me here anymore. And I just…” Dirk lets out a shuddering breath. </p><p>“I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I don’t want to feel anything.”</p><p>His eyes are obscured, but his words are laced with a pain so crushing it’s difficult for John to bear witness. To see Dirk, so famously larger-than-life, appear so small now. All those years that they’d all known him, had he been quietly feeling this way?</p><p>John opens his mouth and closes it, trying to find the words that will fix everything, and drawing a blank. </p><p>Dirk shakes his head dismissively. “I know this must sound ridiculous.”</p><p>“No, it doesn’t.”</p><p>Maybe it comes out a little more insistent than John had intended, because Dirk shoots him a quizzical look. He backpedals. Now’s not the time to air out his problems, no matter how unnervingly similar they might be.</p><p>“I mean…”</p><p>He says, pausing to allow his thoughts to solidify into words.</p><p>“That sounds really, <em>really</em> hard. It’s a long time to have to go through that kind of stuff. I… had no idea you were feeling this way.”</p><p>“It’s… you wouldn’t have known,” Dirk says.</p><p>“I do now, though.“ John replies. “And… yeah! Things aren’t perfect here. Like, I’ll be the first to say it, Earth C is pretty shitty for what was supposed to be the ultimate prize for the hardest game in the universe. But I think that the fact that you’ve already made it through everything to get here proves that you can keep going. Even if it’s just one day at a time! And you can get help, and, after a while, you might find that things are better than you could’ve thought was possible before.“</p><p>“How do you know I can even be helped?” Dirk asks, his voice low.</p><p>“How are you so sure you can’t be?”</p><p>His eyes lock with John’s, hurting, unsure. Dirk says nothing. Finally, John shifts and continues.</p><p>“This time, whatever happens next, you don’t have to do it alone, okay? Your friends, Dave, everyone… they all want what’s best for you. I do, too.” he says earnestly.</p><p>When Dirk still doesn’t say anything, he continues. “I’m going to take you to the hospital. Whether you take their advice or not, that’s up to you, but things can get better if you let them. So, just… let them help, all right?”</p><p>This won’t make anything better. Dirk knows this. But something about the way John speaks–his concerned tone, his brows hard-set with worry–makes him say yes.</p><p>“Okay,” he says quietly. “Let’s do it.”</p><p>They’re three of the most terrifying words he’s ever had to say.</p><p>John’s lips twitch into a slight smile, then he puts his hand on Dirk’s shoulder and closes his eyes. A moment of dissolution, and they’re gone.</p><p>-</p><p>Dirk can smell the hospital before he sees it. The harshly sterile stench of bleach and ammonia fills his lungs; the trademark of a frequented medical facility, remnants of the heavy disinfectant used after the throes of sick and injured patients that walk through this waiting room every day. Which is not to say, necessarily, that it’s unusual for the staff to see patients without any kind of physical affliction–it’s just that most of them don’t happen to be one of the most revered celebrities on the entire planet.</p><p>The linoleum tile squeaks loudly under his shoes as they walk up to the receptionist’s desk, but the serious-looking troll woman sitting at the computer barely glances up at them.</p><p>“Checking in?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Okay, can I get a first and last name?”</p><p>“Dirk Strider.”</p><p>“Very funny, sir. Now if you could please…”</p><p>Her voice trails off as she looks up at him and John, who stands behind him awkwardly. Her hard-set eyebrows arc in surprise. </p><p>“...Oh. I’m so sorry,” she quickly apologizes.</p><p>“It happens.”</p><p>“Right. Can you briefly describe your issue?”</p><p>His tone is one of calculated, even calm as he responds–so characteristically Dirk that the words don’t seem to be coming from him.</p><p>“I just tried to kill myself.”</p><p>The receptionist’s eyes flick up to him again in surprise, but she quickly hides it in clinical neutrality.</p><p>“Okay. Do you have any injuries?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“All right. I’m just finishing the registration form, so you can head into the waiting room. The triage nurse should be with you shortly.”</p><p>They thank her and leave. John watches Dirk closely as they walk into the ER waiting room. He is eerily expressionless, appearing almost placid, as they enter the doorway–a far cry from just minutes ago, when he was struggling violently to escape John’s grasp. Now, he doesn’t even glance in his direction. </p><p>Before even thirty seconds has passed, a triage nurse opens a door in the back of the ED and calls his name. </p><p>“Dirk Strider?”</p><p>At the name, half a dozen heads turn, their sleepy eyes going wide and quickly darting away at the presence of not just one, but two guests of such high esteem. Dirk follows the triage nurse through the doors in the back into a smaller room. She pulls the door shut behind the two of them, and suddenly, John is alone again. He turns back to the waiting area. It’s a plain-looking space, halfheartedly decorated with fake plants on the tables against the wall between the drab blue chairs. At the moment, it is near-empty, populated only by an elderly couple sitting across from them, a tired-looking middle-aged man, and a young woman with crutches leaning against the chair next to her to their left. They try politely to not stare at the renowned figure waiting with them. Every time he looks around, though, John can see them quickly avert their gazes from peeking over their magazines and phones. He decides it’s probably better to ignore them, and takes a seat next to one of the small tables, where a single, dusty, fake orchid sits sadly in a distasteful ceramic vase. Next to it is a stack of magazines. He thumbs through the stack, trying to look at anything but the people around him. There’s a copy of <em>Troll Hive &amp; Garden, Popular Ectobiology, 8½ Sweeps, Boonbucks Businessweek,</em> and <em>Carapace Weekly,</em> on the cover of which John recognizes himself. Feeling a little unnerved, he sets it back on the table and surveys the room. Across from him, an elderly woman’s eyes quickly fall back to her book. John looks down at his own hands instead, folded anxiously in his lap. </p><p>He can’t stop replaying the scene in his mind. Over and over, he feels the chill of early morning, squints against the sun, sees Dirk jump… it really had been just a matter of seconds, hadn’t it? Had he not looked up when he did, John thinks, he and Dirk definitely wouldn’t be here right now. Dirk definitely wouldn’t, that much is certain. Of course, assuming that that would even work within the mechanisms of having a god tier status, anyway. Maybe it wouldn’t have worked, John tells himself. Not Heroic or Just, right? But he has a sick intuition that he’s deceiving himself, even as he thinks it.  Ultimately, it’s probably not worth thinking about. Dirk’s here, and he’s alive, and he can still get help. He <em>is</em> getting help. That’s all that matters, really. </p><p>John hopes he’s doing okay in there. </p><p>He keeps waiting, and is beginning to consider picking up one of the magazines when an important realization strikes his mind. </p><p>
  <em>Dave.</em>
</p><p>He still doesn’t know what’s happened. John’s hands fly to his pockets for his phone in the exact amount of time it takes him to realize, with a sinking feeling, that it’s still sitting on the charger at home, where he’d left it when he got up to take a walk. <em>Shit.</em></p><p>He looks back up at the door. They’ll probably just be another minute, and John doesn’t want to leave Dirk like that. He feels the need to stay, to be there for him as much as possible. It’s the least he can do to help, really.</p><p>And sure enough, a few moments later, the sound of even, assured footsteps alerts John to his presence. Dirk takes a seat next to him with all the cool and casual air of an actor entering a posh restaurant for brunch. The epitome of control. His expression is one of guarded unreadability, successfully masking his trepidation to anyone farther than a few feet away, as he sits in tense stillness. But up close, his too-tight grip on the chair’s armrests and the unmistakable clench of his jaw make it obvious to John that he is <em>fucking terrified.</em></p><p>“Hey,” He says in a low voice, trying not to cause attention. “It’s going to be okay.”</p><p>Dirk’s shoulders stiffen, and he lets out a short breath, almost a laugh. “You’d better be right about that.” </p><p>Right now, it definitely doesn’t <em>feel</em> like everything is going to be okay. It feels more like a stomachache.  This newfound vulnerability; it’s almost too much to handle. The idea of his life being even a tiny bit out of his complete control sits like a pit in his abdomen. He is, after all, Dirk fucking Strider, puppeteer extraordinaire, master of the art of handling everything with swiftness and grace. If he’s not the dictator of his own life’s course, then what is he?</p><p>“...Mr. Strider?”</p><p>He and John both look up. A doctor stands across from the waiting area, waving them over. Behind his glasses, the unfamiliar feeling of apprehension is painted vividly across Dirk’s features. Though he would much rather stay firmly planted where he sits, he finds himself getting up, and moving toward the back of the ED, as if in an out-of-body experience. One step at a time.</p><p>When he and John get to the door, the doctor greets them warmly. He’s a small, stout troll man with small, watery pale green eyes, close-set in his face and exaggerated by a pair of round, owlish glasses too big for his head. His horns are short, and curved backward over his scalp.</p><p>“Hello! It’s Dirk and John, right?”  A formality, of course. There isn’t a single person in this building who doesn’t know their names. </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“It’s nice to meet you. My name is Dr. Neiros; I’m a psychiatric specialist here. They’ve got a room ready for you, it’s up this hallway a bit and to the left.” He walks with them to the room, John taking note of his funny gait. He walks in long strides, seemingly to make up for his short legs.</p><p>“Another doctor is in there, she’s just going to ask you a couple questions, and I’ll be right in in a few minutes.” Dirk goes in, and the door swings shut behind him.</p><p>John stands by, awkwardly. “So… what should I…?”</p><p>“You can take a seat right here,” Dr. Neiros says, gesturing to the bench next to the door. John sits. “I’d like to talk to you a bit before seeing Dirk, if you don’t mind, to try and get a good idea of what happened.” </p><p>“Of course,” John agrees. </p><p>“All right, then.” The doctor flips a page on his clipboard, and clicks his pen open. “Could you tell me a bit about how you know Dirk?”</p><p>“Well… I don’t, really,” John begins, trying to remember the last time he’d even spoken to Dirk. “I’ve seen him a couple of times after the game, when he was with one of my other friends, but I never really talked to him. Before today, at least.”</p><p>Neiros taps his pen on his clipboard. “Today, you mean after his attempt?”</p><p>“Yeah. I was there when it happened.”</p><p>He writes something down, continuing talking to John as he does. “When was this?”</p><p>“Maybe an hour, half an hour ago?” The doctor looks at him, wanting him to elaborate. John sighs, then tells him everything that happened, from leaving his house in the morning to coming to the hospital. Dr. Neiros nods as he listens, occasionally scribbling something down on the clipboard he’s holding. When it’s done, he stands up. But he looks strangely at John, notices something, and frowns.</p><p>“Where’d you get that?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>He points with his pen to John’s cheekbone, where the red beginnings of a bruise are starting to deepen under his skin. John brushes his fingers against it, and winces. He’d kinda forgotten it was there.</p><p>“Oh. Yeah. I had a little trouble convincing him to talk to me in the beginning. We’re good now, though!” John adds quickly, noting the doctor's concerned expression.</p><p>“He did that to you?”</p><p>“No, it’s fine, really,” John says hastily, trying to dismiss the subject. He doesn’t want to drag Dirk into trouble. </p><p>“Okay, well, you should still probably put something on that–hang on–”</p><p>He gets up, and walks past a couple doors to where the hall branches off into another. Around the corner, he waves someone down and says something to them. After a moment, he comes back with an ice pack, and gives it to John. </p><p>“Here. It’ll help keep the swelling down.”</p><p>“Thanks,” John says, feeling that this is all a little unnecessary. He puts it to his cheek, the cold biting his skin.</p><p>“All right. Thank you for your help, John. I’m going to go in and talk to Dirk now.” Neiros says, going into the room.</p><p>“Okay. I guess I’ll just... wait here, then...?” John says, but the door is already closing. It slams shut, leaving John alone again, holding the ice pack awkwardly against his face.</p><p>-</p><p>Meanwhile, Dirk, too, is being interrogated on the nature of his suicide attempt. He finds himself starting to regret it a bit–if only for the fact that he has to explain every step of the last twenty-four hours over and over in excruciating detail. And the more he does, the more he grows anxious, too, as he realizes how catastrophic of a mess this has blown up to be. He can already tell that this won’t be over quickly. It’s one of the less fun parts about still being alive, he thinks. Facing the mortifying ordeal of the vast implications of–well, everything that’s happened, recently or otherwise. Knowing things would never be the same.</p><p>Eventually Neiros comes in. He goes over, for the most part, the same list the two other doctors so far have grilled him on. Dirk, feeling like he has nothing left to lose at this point, answers honestly all of their questions.</p><p>“Are you injured?” No.</p><p>“Have you taken anything?” No. (Just to make sure, they check the toxicology screening the triage nurse gave him, which proves the same.)</p><p>“What happened?” He recites the story for the umpteenth time.</p><p>“How were you feeling in the time leading up to the attempt?” A lot, he says. Determined.</p><p>“How are you feeling now?” He doesn’t know.</p><p>“Do you have access to means for another attempt at home?” Many varieties, yes.</p><p>“Would you use them?” Probably.</p><p>“When was the last time you slept?” Been too long to tell.</p><p>“Are you glad you made it?” Not yet.</p><p>Doctors step in, doctors leave, doctors talk, both inside of earshot and out. Dirk doesn’t hear what they’re saying, only little snippets of dialogue. Plans of what’s to be done with him. A command to empty his sylladex. Questions repeated, answers affirmed and re-affirmed. Suggestions of tentative diagnoses and guesses at symptoms passed around like betting cash: “severe major depression”, “strong suicidal tendencies”, “psychotic features”.  These don’t matter. Putting a name on his lack of a will to stay alive isn’t going to make it go away. His head feels blank; brain and body completely numb. Feelings of tiredness and mania, a craving for hope and a yearning for oblivion, guilt and relief are all crashing at each other in full force, canceling each other out, leaving a perfect equilibrium of nothing to feel. A soul-crushing void, sans the soul-crushing. He’s so consumed by thought he doesn’t even notice Dr. Neiros trying to get his attention until he’s said his name three times.</p><p>“...<em>Dirk.</em>”</p><p>He snaps to attention, blinking up to where the doctor stands, another by his side. “...I’m sorry?”</p><p>“I was just saying,” he begins, shooting a glance at the other doctor, “we’ve decided that temporary inpatient treatment at a local psychiatric facility is probably going to be the best option for you. Maybe for a couple of weeks,” he adds, “until they’re confident that you’re going to be safe once discharged. Because right now, we’re not.”</p><p>Dirk tenses slightly. “Okay.”</p><p>“In order to go forward with this treatment, we need your consent first. You can agree to our inpatient hospitalization plan, or disagree, in which case we can only make you stay here for a couple of nights. For your sake, though, I would strongly suggest against it.” He takes off his glasses, looking up from the clipboard to Dirk. “Ultimately, Mr. Strider, this is your choice.”</p><p>Dirk would be lying to say his answer didn’t come with hesitation. It’s not unappealing. If he refused, he could be home by the end of the week, back to his business, probably to end up in the same spot in a week or worse. He considers this. As the scenario plays out in his mind, the other doctor leaves the room with the box from his sylladex, swinging the door open for a brief moment. Through the crack, he sees John in the hallway. Tired, yet irritatingly supportive John. He’s talking to a doctor with a concerned expression, but pauses to glance over when the door opens. In their moment of eye contact, he takes one hand out of his hoodie pocket and waves a little, his face breaking into half of one of his signature Egbertian grins. It’s enough.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>-</p><p>After a few minutes, Dr. Neiros comes out to speak with John. He closes the door behind him gingerly. John stands up, anticipating the news of Dirk’s fate.</p><p>“Well?”</p><p>“Your friend…  I’m not going to sugarcoat it, he’s very unwell. At the moment, he’s in pretty unstable condition.  If it weren’t for you, I think it’s pretty clear that he wouldn’t be here.”</p><p>John mulls this over for a moment. The thought that he’s responsible for Dirk being alive is still a bit much to think about–especially considering that yesterday, they hadn’t so much as looked at each other in years.</p><p>“So, does he have to stay here, then?” he asks.</p><p>“Here, no. We’ve made the decision that, in the best interest of his safety, he needs to be transferred somewhere to get more specialized psychiatric care until his condition stabilizes,” Dr. Neiros explains.</p><p>“...you mean like a mental hospital?”</p><p>“For lack of a better term, yes. It could be for anywhere between a couple days and a month, depending on how well he takes to treatment. And–” He glances back to the room where Dirk talks with a pair of doctors–</p><p>“–based on my time with him so far, I suspect that might not happen right away.”</p><p>John frowns. “Do you think he’ll ever get back to normal?”</p><p>“Well, the hard thing about cases like these, is that the way Dirk was feeling for a long time <em>was</em> normal for him. He’s going to have to go through a lot to break out of his current habits, essentially change his whole day-to-day life. Which will take time. But, yes, it’s absolutely possible, likely even, that that can happen.”</p><p>John nods at this, listening closely with brows drawn.</p><p>“We're going to do the best we can to give him the help he needs. He will recover, and until then, he’ll be safe there.”</p><p>John takes half a step back, and sees Dirk through a crack in the door’s blinds, filling out a sheet on a clipboard while talking with two other doctors. It’s difficult to imagine him cooperating with the mundane day-to-day life of a hospital without protest. From what John had heard, he was pretty sure Dirk’s goal was to make every day as frustratingly contrived as possible for himself. But, then again, had anything about today been less than far-fetched? </p><p>Dr. Neiros continues. “I understand this might come as a lot, but this is the best thing we can do for him right now. We already talked to him about it, and they’re working out some of the details with him right now. They already had him empty his sylladex, so his things can be brought home before admission to the hospital, since it’s their requirement that patients don’t have any personal belongings on them for the first few days.” He gestures back to a box sitting behind them next to the door.</p><p>John, still looking toward the room, wants to know what Dirk thinks about all of this. “Can I talk to him?”</p><p>“They should be coming out in just a minute. If you don’t mind waiting here, you can follow them to the waiting area.”</p><p>“Waiting area? For…?”</p><p>“For the ambulance,” Neiros says plainly.</p><p>“...<em>Ambulance???</em>”</p><p>“It’s the most secure method of transport from the hospital, and standard protocol for psychiatric patients like Dirk,” the doctor explains. “That way, we can keep an eye on him until meeting with the staff at the other hospital. All of our ambulances are currently in use though, so it might be a bit of a wait.”</p><p>He walks away, leaving John, his thoughts swirling. Admittedly, he hadn’t been thinking very far ahead about what might happen after bringing Dirk to the hospital, but now that he has, everything has escalated tremendously. Which is not to say that the measures are particularly extreme... it’s just a lot, how everything’s been put into motion so quickly. And he’s not even the one getting hospitalized!</p><p>As he thinks, he becomes aware of a noise coming from behind him. There’s a dull buzzing coming from the box of things Dirk had captchalogued. John glances down the hall to make sure no one’s around, then kneels down and rummages through the things to the bottom of the pile, where Dirk’s phone sits, showing that he has 26 missed calls from today in a notification on the bottom corner. The phone nearly slips from his grip as it starts vibrating again.</p><p>
  <strong></strong>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <strong>CALL FROM: DAVE STRIDER</strong>
  </p>
</div>John quickly swipes to answer, and is immediately greeted by Dave’s frantic voice.<p><span class="dave">DAVE: dirk?</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: oh thank god i was so worried about you</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: are you okay</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: where are you</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: dave, it’s me. it’s john.</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: i’m with dirk right now, we’re at the hospital.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: holy shit wait what</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: is</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: is he okay</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: yeah, he’s all right. um, physically, i mean.</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: he’s inside talking to some doctors right now, they said they’re going to transfer him to another hospital soon, and that he’s going to stay there for a while. i think that he’s going to be ok.</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: i guess you know what happened?</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: i found his note at his house thats how i knew</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: he said how he was gonna do it, so i can puzzle that out for the most part</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: but the whole thing was pretty incoherent to be honest</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: all rambley and shit you know how he gets</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: or maybe not i mean youve only met the guy a couple times before right</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: but yeah what happened</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: i saw him this morning, when I was out in bishop square. it was just a right place at the right time kind of thing, i guess. he was up on the bell tower, and there was a rope around his neck, and i saw him jump and i…</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: i just barely got to him in time, i think, otherwise…</span><br/>
</p><p>He trails off, and there’s silence on both ends for a moment, as they imagine the gruesome scene that would have unfolded in a universe not so different from this.</p><p><span class="john">JOHN: so, um.</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: i brought him down and talked with him for a bit.</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: i didn’t really know where else to go, so i came here.</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: …</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: ...dave?</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: yeah im still here</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: are you ok?</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: yeah im fine it’s just</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: kind of a lot to think about</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: the fact that my brother almost died today i mean it just doesnt feel real</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: but</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: im just so glad hes not dead</span><br/>
</p><p>Dave’s voice breaks a little on the end of the sentence.</p><p><span class="dave">DAVE: so i guess what i’m meaning to say is</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: thank you</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: uh, don’t worry about it.</span><br/>
</p><p>The door cracks. One of the doctors walks out.</p><p><span class="john">JOHN: hey, i think they’re about to bring us to the waiting room for the ambulance, so i should probably go.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: hang on before you leave</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: which hospital are you at</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: it’s in the troll kingdom. near east veil, i think?</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: goddamn it okay</span><br/>
</p><p>On Dave’s end, a car door slams. John can hear muffled directions hastily given to whoever’s driving.</p><p><span class="dave">DAVE: listen im on my way i’ll be there asap</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: but if i dont get there in time then i guess tell him</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: tell him im glad hes okay</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: all right?</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: okay, i will.</span><br/>
<span class="dave">DAVE: ok see you soon then</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: you too.</span><br/>
</p><p>The line beeps. John sighs and puts the phone back in the bin, then goes back to wait in the hall by the exam room. Muffled voices come from inside. The ice pack he’s been holding has started to melt, he notices, watching the cold condensation gather at the bottom of the bag and drip to the linoleum floor. Just as he’s starting to question whether to ask somebody for a new one, the door opens.</p><p>Dr. Neiros brings them to a waiting room by one of the ED’s exits. It’s smaller than the first, with only four chairs set up on either wall–and, thankfully, empty. A nurse sits working at a desk in the hallway, but not infrequently, Dirk notices her glance in their direction. Suicide watch. He averts his gaze. </p><p>He can feel the caffeine and anxiety beginning to abate, and the fatigue beginning to set in. His eyes, his whole body, feel heavy with lethargy in a way he can only liken to the feeling of being revived after a violent death–a feeling Dirk is probably more familiar with than he should be. Functioning, but in a way so that your body seems to know it shouldn’t be. Circumstances pulling you down, but others keeping you inextricably buoyant in the grand scheme of things, putting a physical strain on your body though its indecision on how to keep going.</p><p>The wait for the ambulance is a grueling experience. The hours are long, heavy, and thick like some sort of unpleasant stew. Garnished, too, with an awkward and tense silence between Dirk and John, that neither wants to break. And how could they be expected to? There’s too much to say, but not enough familiarity to say it. So they sit in almost comically awkward silence, staring at the wall, the chairs, the floor, or their hands. But through the discomfort of a lack of interpersonal connections, Dirk is comforted by the simple fact of John’s presence. He may not have spoken, but he’s there, and he’s willing to stay with him for however long it takes. Dirk honestly has no idea why John cares enough to stay, but he’s quietly grateful to have someone there. </p><p>It’s silent between them for a half, maybe even a full hour. John shifts his ice pack into his other hand. Suddenly, Dirk speaks.</p><p>“Sorry about that.” He nods toward the ice pack a bit.</p><p>“Wha–oh. It’s all right,” John says with a shrug. “It doesn’t even hurt.” </p><p>“Oh. Uh. That’s good.”</p><p>A long, awkward pause. Then it’s John’s turn. </p><p>“Dave called, by the way.”</p><p>Dirk bristles at his name. Instant, cutting guilt. “...What’d he say?”</p><p>“He’s on his way right now. I don’t know if he’ll get here in time, but… he was really, really worried about you. And he said to tell you that he’s glad you’re all right.”</p><p>“Well then. When you see him, tell him thanks for me.”</p><p>Dave. God. If anyone doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this, it’s him. He shouldn’t have left that note. Shouldn’t have been so selfish to hurt him like that. Shouldn’t have jumped, shouldn’t have failed, shouldn’t have survived…</p><p>“John.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Do you really think doing this is the right thing?”</p><p>John’s answer doesn’t surprise him. “Of course it is. Wait, you’re not having second thoughts, are you?”</p><p>“No, no, I’m just…” He turns to face him. “What if I end up regretting this? What if every day, I wake up, and keep feeling exactly the same?”</p><p>John thinks. “Well… you don’t know that that’ll happen. Besides, even if there’s a chance things will get better, isn’t it worth it to stick around and try to find it?”</p><p>“I hope so.”</p><p>-</p><p>Together, they wait for another hour. By the time a doctor comes to tell them the ambulance has arrived, both are on the verge of nodding off from sheer exhaustion after everything that’s happened, despite it only being the early afternoon. A nurse trails Dirk out the door, followed by a doctor, followed by John in a solemn procession to where an ambulance is parked by the edge of the sidewalk. The back doors are open. Dirk steps in.</p><p>Across the parking lot, a car door slams. A desperate brother runs toward the side of the hospital, toward the exit where the ambulance is parked.</p><p>“Dirk!”</p><p>At the sound of his name, he turns–and freezes. It’s the last person he wants to see right now, because with him there, everything is unbearably real, as if Dave is a physical manifestation of the realization of what a selfish bastard he’s become. </p><p>Dave raises his hand in a half-wave that Dirk does not reciprocate. For a split second something passes between them, tense and raw, like an exposed nerve. Dirk’s expression falls slightly in something like regret. Then the doors are slammed shut, and the ambulance leaves, speeding away down the street and down the road into lonesome uncertainty.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It just so happens that September is Suicide Prevention Month (in the US, at least). So, I felt it would be fitting to say a few words here. </p><p><a href="https://www.thetrevorproject.org/">The Trevor Project</a> is a great organization which aims to help LGBTQ+ youth struggling with mental health issues. I’ve looked into them, and the organization is a pretty awesome place to get involved with if you're interested in helping out, especially with more people needing help now during COVID-19. </p><p>If you or someone you know is struggling, don't wait to reach out—help is available! If you are in the US, you can call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or if you prefer, contact the Crisis Text Line by texting “HOME” to 741741.</p><p><a href="https://www.opencounseling.com/suicide-hotlines">Here is a link to a list of international resources.</a> And, of course, you can always feel free to reach out to me as well on my tumblr, @homegrown-hubris.</p><p>Love y’all. Stay safe. Ch3 should be out soon.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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